Nothing
by YoHoHeartie
Summary: It meant nothing, she meant nothing. And it scared her that she didn't care. Oneshot, ElleHotch.


It meant nothing. He made that clear the first time. And though he never said it, she knew what he meant—she meant nothing.

It wasn't what you'd call a torrid affair, not in the traditional sense. It wasn't their feelings for each other that were passionate, but the feelings of anger, regret, and disgust that clung to them after a case.

The first time it happened, they were in Ohio. They had spent the past week tracking down a serial killer whose target had been eight-year-old girls. Cases involving children hit everyone hard, and she was no exception.

He knocked on her hotel room door around midnight, and by the fourth knock, she was at the door. She opened it slowly, her body stiff and screaming for rest.

He stood in the doorway, suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up and hair ruffled. She didn't look much better, her dress pants and t-shirt rumpled from hours of wear, mascara smudged, and hair limp.

No words were spoken as she gestured for him to follow her into the room. He closed and locked the door, the sound deafening to her tired ears. She turned around to question him, but he was faster. He was in front of her in an instant, hand wound in her hair, his mouth on hers. He was smothering her questions, his lips rough and unforgiving. She moaned into his mouth and pulled at his shirt, before pushing away. He looked her in the eye and said, breathlessly, "This means nothing."

He again stopped her questions as he nipped her bottom lip. She tugged at his shirt, impatient as always. A button popped, and he growled as he pushed her against the wall.

Their clothes came off awkwardly, both unwilling to pull apart. He struggled to get her bra off, ripping it and breaking a clasp. He threw the torn material aside as he lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist. He entered her roughly, egged on by her breathless groans. He bit her neck as her head hit the wall.

When her nails started to lightly scrape his shoulders, he grabbed her hands hurriedly and slammed them against the wall, whispering roughly in her ear, "No marks."

There were no smiles, no sweet kisses, or gentle caresses. When he came, he didn't say her name, and she didn't say his. When he pulled out, she didn't feel incomplete, and when he set her down, he didn't kiss her forehead or stroke her hair. He didn't ask about birth control, and she knew he wouldn't—he knew she was on the pill.

As he gathered his clothes, she slipped on her panties and t-shirt, picking up her ruined bra and throwing it in the trash. He turned when she sat down on the bed, offering nothing as he buttoned his shirt.

She crossed the room, going to the door. He stood in front of her as she said softly, "I understand." He nodded, then, confident that they were on the same page. Neither offered parting words of comfort, and they wouldn't be well received. He didn't kiss her good-bye, and a ghost of a smile graced her lips.

It still happened every now and then. When there was a tough case out of town, he'd go to her room. She never sought him out, but she never turned him away.

There were no pretenses, no unfulfilled fantasies of running away together. They both knew what this was, and had no expectations of something more. It was a release for them, taking the place of that bottle of vodka or that bubble bath. It wasn't fucking, no, it wasn't intense enough to be called that, and it certainly didn't involve love.

He didn't buy her presents, and he didn't sneak away from his wife. She knew he wouldn't, and if he did, would turn him away. This was not a way to escape people—it was a way to escape the horror.

At work, he didn't treat her differently, and they didn't sneak off to broom closets. They didn't give each other looks of longing, and they didn't daydream of being together.

For her, it was tangible. She couldn't wash away the feelings, not like she could wash away him. After they'd meet, she'd take a long, hot shower, and stare at the evidence of them being washed away. The sweat slid off first—making her let go of the anger. She'd take big mouthfuls of water, and spit it out, watching the blood from her lips swirl down the drain. That she labeled regret—the blood ran throughout her whole body, like the feeling of letting a victim down.

The bruises were her disgust, so bold, and permanent. They couldn't be washed away, not like the others, and all she could do was scrub over them, and let the pain course through her.

She knew how he felt about her. She was a release, nothing more. He said only two things when they were together; he'd start by reminding her, "This means nothing," and every time he'd feel her nails, he'd warn, "No marks."

Ten years ago, hell, five years ago, this would bother her. She would never feel relief that there was nothing more, and she would never be involved with a married man.

Somewhere along the way, she stopped caring. She could feel herself slipping away during every case, every killer they let get away, and every victim's body they saw. She was barely there, not hanging out with the guys after work, not joking with them on the phone.

The years of murders, rapes, and assaults had finally worn her down, and until she heard him say those words, and feel nothing, she didn't know how far gone she was. She realized too late that she was slipping, and now all she could do was let the knowledge of her lost life wash over her.

It meant nothing.


End file.
